


You exist to be caught by me

by Thornofthelily



Series: Top Goro Week 2021 [2]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Akechi has a palace, Akira/Akechi/Cognitive Akira/Shadow Akechi, Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Bad/Creepy Ending, Blow Jobs, Bottom!Akira, Captivity, Cum drinking, Dirty Talk, Dissociation, Dom/sub, Double Penetration, Face-Sitting, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Light Bondage, Loss of Control, M/M, Mind Break, Overstimulation, Possessive Behavior, Rimming, Stomach Bulge, Subspace, Top!Goro, Voyeurism, de-personalization, dom!Goro, oh yeah it's a whole thing, sub!Akira, top goro week 2021
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:22:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28987044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thornofthelily/pseuds/Thornofthelily
Summary: Now, they kiss for an audience, they kiss like actors kiss when they want to arouse the audience, mouths wide and tongues on display. The noises they made sounded like the ones Akira and Akechi themselves made, as Akechi held him down, stripped him, pounded into him: moaning, panting, their hands roving over bodies. It should have been humiliating. He should be embarrassed to see such wanton displays. But this was what he came here for, and he couldn't have asked for a better show.Watching someone that looked just like him, kissing someone that looked just like Akechi.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Series: Top Goro Week 2021 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2125152
Comments: 8
Kudos: 107
Collections: TopGoroWeek #1 2021





	You exist to be caught by me

**Author's Note:**

> Top Goro Week Day 2: Double Penetration and Detective Prince vs Black Mask (kind of)
> 
> Note: This fic is a kind of sequel to my first Persona 5 fic ["I Exist to be Caught by You"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24416641/chapters/58904869) (but please dear god don't read it). You only need context from the first chapter of that fic to get this one; I tried to summarize at the beginning so you don't need to have read the first. This is a "bad end" look following the events of that chapter. Shout out to @Yesuna2 on Twitter/Yesuna on Ao3, who left a comment like half a year ago that made me want to write an all Akeshu foursome. Thank you for that!

He went back. Of course he went back.

Akechi had a Palace. Akira found out when he snuck in after one night of bitter indulgence, when his sometimes friend, sometimes enemy, always rival kept beating him in every way possible, and he wanted a way to up the ante. And his massive theatre of a Palace was the perfect opportunity, sneaking in on his own, skipping past the spotlights dancing across the Tokyo night skyline, only to see his own face plastered across the walls. Akechi's star actor, the lead player. And he got to see what the Detective Prince really thought him, when he caught Akechi's Shadow making out with Akira's cognitive double.

And then the _real_ Akechi caught him there. The narcissist who watched the plays put on by his own warped brain. Though he managed to escape that place, convincing Akechi he was merely another cognition, an obstacle invented by his own mind desperate for a challenge, he didn't exactly get away free of consequences.

He seduced Akechi, blew Akechi, let Akechi fuck him across every corner of his Palace. And he told himself he did it for survival.

But after days and days, he couldn't stop thinking about it. Late at night when Morgana patrolled Yongen, Akira ran down to the Leblanc bathroom, fingers in his mouth as he remembered the taste of Akechi's cock and jerked himself so hard his dick ached the rest of the following day. He hadn't called a Phantom Thief meeting for a week because that would mean seeing Akechi, while he pretended to help them with Sae's Palace. Even if his little ruse had worked and Akechi didn't suspect Akira, Akira didn't think he could hold his face together.

It felt so good. He didn't have to be a Phantom Thief in that moment. He wasn't a criminal, a scuff on the otherwise pristine boot of society. He surrendered to Akechi, let himself be used, surrendered to his pleasure, and indulged in fantasies of his own. Like an addiction, the MetaNav's history glowed up from his screen, daring him to go back.

So he went, giving Morgana a thinly veiled excuse that he needed to clear his head and go for a walk. Alone. He could have told him, should have told him. He never revealed what he learned behind those tall walls painted with his smiling, painted face. Couldn't bare to share with his team Akechi's obsession with him. Maybe a little jealously.

Guilt sat like a stone in his stomach, but when he activated the Nav and skipped back into the Metaverse, it all faded to a distant hum of excitement. Joker once again, tailcoats flying behind him, Akira raced back to the center of Akechi's heart.

So many questions swirled in his mind. Had their little encounter changed Akechi's heart, even a bit? Maybe what they did altered his thinking. Maybe it would be harder for Akechi to kill Akira, now that they've had sex. Even if he didn't think it was real, that had to change _something_.

Spotlights still scanned the sky in the distance, and the face of playhouse still had posters covering every inch of the outside. But now they weren't just Akira's face in various masks, various costumes. Akechi's cognition had indeed changed, greatly expanding his imagination.

In one framed picture, Akira kneeled on the ground, wearing a dog collar attached to a leash, held by someone off-screen. Another, Akira's blindfolded face stared blankly from the paper, open-mouthed and drooling around a ring gag. Akira's ass up in the air, stuffed with all kinds of toys.

Akira swayed in his heeled boots, overwhelmed. Not only at the graphic fantasies on full display, but the way his insides twisted in eager excitement. Akechi knew his body so well, from just one encounter, every flexing muscle and curve and scar and blemish shone back in bright glossy 60 x 90 centimeter high definition gloss. The extent of Akechi's fanatical depravity mixed some fear in with the excitement, which Akira only loved more.

He shouldn't go in. He risked everything by even being here, after he got caught once already. They had a plan to stop Akechi, albeit a shitty one. But everything had already gone so far off the rails, just by knowing this place existed. The fear and pleasure he craved, the thrill and the danger, it wasn't something he could get anywhere else. Instead of sneaking in, he used the front door, and the Shadow bouncer waved him in without a second glance, like he was a welcome guest.

The auditorium was still empty. The stage silent. When Akira took his seat, a light popped on and shone on a figure on stage: another Akira. The cognitive double he had spied on in secret. This time, it wasn't wearing a silly costume or monologuing about being helpless before Director Akechi's plan, but just in his Shujin school uniform, looking as calm as, well, Akira always looked. The mirror-like effect of his double standing across the room from him made him a little nauseous. And when the spotlight whirled around to blind him, pain lanced across his eyes and made him feel even worse. He had to hold up a hand to keep out the glare, barely able to make out the figure slowly walking towards him

"We know what you are," Akira's voice said.

He shivered. Like hearing a recording of himself, the cognition's voice sounded off, distorted. Fake. And it _was_ fake, he reminded himself, though his nausea only grew. "What do you mean?"

"We know the inner workings of this theatre. Every back room, every rope and pulley, every prop and costume. We know the shadows and the illusions, the characters and the scripts. We know you are not a player on this set."

His blood ran cold. Does that mean his plot didn't work after all? Did Akechi _know_? "Is he here?" Akira asked, eyeing otherwise empty room.

A snarky grin split across their shared face, and even past the spotlight's glare Akira could see it plain. For the first time, Akira saw the face that infuriated his parents, his teachers, and all manner of adults throughout his teens. He couldn't blame them for hating it; it made him want to slap it off his own mouth. "A very good question. If only I knew who 'he' was."

"Where is the master of this Palace?" He asked instead.

Its eyes widened in mock surprise. "Master? I'm afraid I do not know any master. Do you mean the Director? Or… do you mean _your_ master?"

"I don't have a –" Trying to reason with a cognition, like it mattered at all, so pointless. But he didn't get far before a sharp pain cracked across the back of his skull, temporarily blinding him even more effectively than the spotlight. Akira fell to his knees groaning and clutching his skull like he had to hold it together in his hands. He didn’t quite fall unconscious – movies always make it look easier than it is – but he was dazed enough that he couldn't move as two shadowed figures stood over him.

"Wonderful performance as always, my star."

"I move only at your whim, Director. My acting is only as you will it."

"And a perfect response, as well. Bring it to the prop room, beautiful, the playwright should arrive shortly."

"Yes, Director."

The familiar sensation of handcuffs cinched Akira's wrists – apparently the Detective Prince's favorite form of restraint – as someone roughly pulled him to his feet, forcing him to walk. His vision blurred from the impact of the strike, he could barely make out soft gossamer smears of light and color as he was led through the Palace. Akechi's Shadow and his own cognitive double marched him to a familiar room, one he remembered clearly, and threw him on a massive bed. He didn’t need to look to see the accouterments along the walls and hanging off racks, the whips and floggers and paddles and toys, all more fit for Kamoshida's dungeons than a theatre.

Akira had been here before. Thought he knew what to do, like Akechi hadn't learned his tricks. He worked a lockpick into his palm, only to have it snatched away with hands as deft and clever as his own. "Not this time," his own voice mocked. Even though his vision was sharpening back to full clarity, he could picture that shit-eating grin, burned into his mind.

"It's pointless, don't you see? Just like me, you can't help but follow the Director's wishes."

"I'm nothing like you," he spat.

It laughed. Akira heard that sound dozens of times from his own mouth, during better, joyful times with his friends. The friends he abandoned to chase after his own thrills. The friends he didn't want to confront with his secret. The friends who have no way to find him, or rescue him. "I _am_ you," it said with a honey-sweet voice. "I know you because we are the same."

"You're only what Akechi thinks of me. And I gotta say, he's really underestimated me." It's behind Akira, he can hear it. He twisted his body towards it, reaching out blindly with his legs to catch it around the waist. He managed to wrestle it on its back, and Akira hoisted himself on top, straddling its waist.

He expected a lot of things, but he could never adjust to that cocksure expressions staring back at him. "Getting started without me?" That voice. Not Akira's this time. Paralyzing. The doppelganger melted at the sound; Akira felt it relaxing and sinking into the mattress between his knees. Akechi's voice. But the real question: was it his Shadow? Or the real thing?

Footsteps from behind, but Akira didn't want to turn away from his smirking reflection. He waited, listening to footsteps get nearer and nearer, and when he could all but feel the breath at his neck, he leaned forward and donkey-kicked behind him, hoping to catch the assailant by surprise, but a fist grabbed his ankle, tugging him off balance and rolling him onto his side, off the cognition. Akira caught sight of tight brown jodhpurs hugging thick calves, a white shirt unbuttoned halfway down a toned chest, and a stylishly askew beret on top of shoulder-length brown hair. The most foppish outfit Akechi would never be caught dead in. The Director, Shadow Akechi.

"Looks like he is misbehaving already," he addressed Akira's clone, not even looking at the real thing.

All the cool bravado vanished from that face as the Director grew closer, turning to a simpering pout. "He doesn't know the rules, Director," it whined in an obnoxious high voice.

The Shadow stroked his cheek with a velvet-soft brown glove. "Then why don't we show him, my star?"

Eagerly, the doppelganger rose up to a sitting position and kissed the Director, moving so fast Akira was sure he'd hear teeth clack. The Director opened his mouth readily, and Akira watched a facsimile of his own tongue slip past Shadow Akechi's lips like some kind of sick display of his own fantasies. Except these were… Akechi's fantasies, right?

They were like this before. When he first infiltrated this Palace, he saw his double and Akechi's Shadow kissing intimately, like they'd done it dozens, hundreds of times. Clearly something Akechi thought about a lot, even before their… encounter, here.

Back then, the kiss was private, quiet, a shared moment between people who thought they were alone. Now, they kiss for an audience, they kiss like _actors_ kiss when they want to arouse the audience, mouths wide and tongues on display. The noises they made sounded like the ones Akira and Akechi themselves made, when Akechi held him down, stripped him, pounded into him: moaning, panting, their hands roving over bodies. He should have been humiliating. He should be embarrassed to see such wanton displays. But this was what he came here for, and he couldn't have asked for a better show.

Watching someone that looked just like him, kissing someone that looked just like Akechi. Akira's body burned from too many clothes and not enough friction, lying helpless on his side as the two figures kissed noisily, sloppily, wet and muffled gasps and growls filling the air until Akira choked on it.

They didn't even looked like they cared about Akira watching, rubbing over each other with hands, mouth, bodies, not even giving him a glance. Not checking to see if he was running away or picking open the handcuffs which of course he wasn't. He just watched, dick hardening painfully in his pants. The only thing about the cuffs that bothered him at the moment were that they kept him from touching himself.

Desperate for _something_ , Akira rolled from his side onto his stomach, grinding his hips into the mattress as he continued to watch the two doubles make out. Cognitive hands clutched Shadow shoulders and coiled into fists, pulling them together as tight as they could go. Fake Akechi's hands pressed into fake Akira's waist, rocking their hips together. The real Akira rutted harder into the mattress, muffling his voice by biting the sheets. Not that it did much, with the cognition of him, unrestrained by tact or decency, making all the lewd noises he wished he could. Being like what he and Akechi could have been in another time, if circumstances hadn't carved an irreconcilable ravine between the two of them. Akira desperately wished he had hands to properly touch himself with. 

"Like your own personal porn fantasy, isn't it?" Another voice whispered into his ear. Akira jolted as a hand fisted at the back of his head and kept him facing the doppelgangers. Straining over his shoulder and past the tight grip, he saw Akechi, the _real_ Akechi, in his princely white uniform, kneeling on the bed and hovering over him.

"This is literally _your_ fantasy," Akira snapped before remembering his cover story. The cognition knew he was real… but did that mean Akechi knew by now? Or maybe suspected?

"You seem to be enjoying it just as much," Akechi snarked back, using his free hand to grope Akira's ass and shove him harder into the bed and crushing his trapped cock. He hissed, not sure if it felt amazing or actually hurt. Or maybe it hurt and he just didn't care. "Just couldn't stay away, could you?"

Akira flailed, but the angle was all wrong. He had no leverage, no actual intent to escape Akechi's grip holding him by the hair and at his hip. "I'm your rival," Akira tried for the same line that worked last time. "I can never leave you alone."

Akechi inhaled sharply. Shit. With the wet sounds of kissing and rustling of hands groping over clothes filling the room, the two flesh and blood humans reacting viscerally to every move, perhaps that wasn't the best phrasing.

Akechi hoisted Akira up with an arm around his shoulders, grappling his back to Akechi's chest and squeezing him tight. It would almost be an embrace if not for the iron grip on his chin, forcing him to face their doubles. "Watch, Joker," he breathed into the shell of Akira's ear. "Watch your future. This is what I want to do to you."

Akira could have closed his eyes, could have looked anything else. But realistically, of course he couldn't. Wouldn't. Didn't. Instead he watched in morbid fascination, the Shadow's hands slipping under the copy of his uniform, stripping the blazer off his shoulders and throwing it to the floor. Tugging down his suspenders to hang in loops past his hips. And copies of his own hands threaded through a simulacrum of Akechi's hair, something he thought about doing far too often.

Then Akechi's hands – real Akechi's real hands, stroked down his chest, rolling over each button on his Joker vest and leaving a burning ache on the skin underneath. "Enjoying yourself?" One of his palms pressed against the tent at the front of his pants, and Akechi chuckled as he finally averted his eyes, watering in delicious shame. "Seems like you are." He bit Akira's ear and he gasped, unable to resist twitching up against his hand. "You like seeing us together? Like seeing how good things could be if you just surrender to me?"

Akira snarled, thrashed, kicked as much as he could, but Akechi held him fast. It was all for show, because he was right. Hadn't he returned because he couldn't stop thinking about Akechi's voice in his ear, Akechi's hands on his body? His cock relentlessly fucking him, in this very room? His whole soul ached for it. It was why he couldn't call the team together, why he spent so long locked in the Leblanc bathroom alone each night. Before, Akira's flimsy cover was that he was Akechi's cognition of Joker, the enemy. That he existed to be caught by him. The carrot at the end of the stick he would forever chase. But maybe Akira had it wrong. Maybe he _did_ exist to be caught, but he was the one doing the chasing. Maybe he's been caught all along.

His attempts to free himself were useless because he's never been freer than when he was held captive by Akechi.

He still made a show of it, because Akechi would never respect a quiet surrender. And sure enough Akechi laughed and kissed his neck. "You don't want to give up, yet? That's good. As my rival, I'd expect nothing less.

"Akira," he cooed, and Akira shuddered violently at the use of his first name. But Akechi wasn't talking to _him._ The bed shifted and Akira looked up to see his double, shirtless now and suspenders still dangling, crawling towards him. It was... _his_ lips were flushed pink and swollen and grinning, eyes hazy and hungry. Akira tried to back away but Akechi still held him, even wrapping his legs around his hips. "If you don't want to surrender to me, maybe you can surrender to your own hand." Akechi's hand slotted under his chin, and he forced Akira to look at his smiling reflection. "Kiss him."

Akira didn't know which of them he meant, but it didn't matter. The cognition looked back towards Akechi's Shadow, who nodded. Then his double… then the actor leaned forward and pressed their lips together.

If watching his clone kiss Akechi was weird, then kissing _himself_ was pure insanity. Their lips fit perfectly over each other's, same size, shape, texture. They smelled the same- coffee and spice and home. Akira recognized the way the actor's lips carefully, almost shyly met with his own, breaking for a quiet breath before pressing back, like he savored every touch, every taste. In every way, he kissed just like Akira, like Akechi, during their brief and aggressive little fucking session, had memorized exactly how Akira moved and behaved, reflecteing in this mirror image. Not just in looks, but in behavior, maybe even thoughts. His heart swelled in his chest, even though he knew better. Akechi would kill him. Wanted to kill him. Said he would do it and make it look like a suicide. He knew all of this, and yet the idea that Akechi knew him so well, better than anyone else, propelled him forward to kiss himself back.

It no longer felt just like kissing himself. Now Akira realized, he truly was just kissing Akechi, putting on a show for him. Their lips parted and tongues met, sliding wetly together. He knew the game, as did Akira. Neither of them were in charge here. The mantle of Joker, of leader, even _criminal_ fell from Akira's shoulders as he collapsed into the actor's mouth like a dying star. They moaned in harmony, voices identical in pitch and timbre, and Akira couldn't tell who was who. Both Thief and Player blended together in a cacophony of tangled teeth and groans. The faker's hands cupped Akira's cheeks exactly like he did when he kissed, and his arms itched to be free of the handcuffs to do the same. Akira ached to be closer, to be free of his clothes, feel their naked chests pressed together, matching scar for scar, mark by mark.

Akechi's weight at his back vanished but Akira hardly noticed, except to crawl nearer to his twin and sync their heat and passion. Bound arms ached at his shoulder blades and back, but he reveled in it, the helplessness wherein he could convince himself this was the only choice, that he had to give in, that he could finally stop fighting. More movement, shifting weight. The reflection pulled away for just a moment, guiding Akira's shoulders down to the bed as he held himself over the thief's chest. His fingers flicked over the buttons of the Joker vest, and a knifepoint dug into them, sighing through the fabric as he ripped it off. Akira's knife, he noted dispassionately, pulled from his hip sheath. _I could have been killed,_ he realized, _and wouldn't even have noticed_. Instead of scaring him, the excitement and thrill has his fluttering heart leaping in his throat. Of course, the reflection knew all of Akira's expressions, and he smiled, kissing the tip of his nose. "Thrilling, isn't it?" He whispered. When Akira nodded, he rewarded him with another sweet press of lips.

Hands on his belt distracted the giddy thief, glancing down, he saw Akechi… no, the _Director_ , pulling down his pants to expose his naked arousal.

Fear trickled through the haze of excitement to slither down his back. Where was the real Akechi? Akira scanned the room but his double grabbed his face, forcing them to face each other. "Don't worry," he purred. "It'll be fun for you too." Akira could have worried about what that meant, but he didn't want to, so he just kissed him instead.

Akira's pants formed another kind of restraint as they bunched up around his boots. He relaxed into the bed, kissing an identical pair of lips. Then slick, wet, tight heat wrapped around his exposed erection and began to suck. Glancing down, he saw the Director, _Akechi's face_ , staring up at him, mouth full of his cock. Akira whimpered into his own mouth, and the clone held him by the hair and deepened the kiss, tongue spearing so deep he almost gagged on it. Maybe because of the added weight and pressure of a body on top of him, kissing while his dick got sucked, maybe because it was a Shadow, or it was just something about Akechi, but it felt like no blowjob he'd ever received before.

Overwhelming, taking him so deep and fast that Akira squirmed, panting, barely able to focus past it to keep up with the voracious appetite of his counterpart. He could do little more than hold his jaws slack and open for the exploring tongue in his needy mouth. It's unbearable, the overloading pressure building up inside the cage of his skull, mewling and jerking his hips erratically.

"You're a mess, Joker," Akechi's teasing voice cuts through. At that, his other self takes a silent cue to pull back and let Akira see where the true Detective Prince sat.

At the foot of the bed, on a short-back stool, Akechi leaned in a relaxed pose, staring down at the scene past his long red beak. Clenched in a white-gloved fist, his cock stood out from his open fly, stroking leisurely as his own mind ravaged Akira. Akira arched his back, trying to sit up, but hands held him back. The cognitive actor leaned down at an angle to stage kiss him in a way that the true Akechi could see Akira's tongue vanish down Akira's throat.

"You were right before, you know," Akechi continued conversationally in contrast to Akira's pitching moans, the Director's slobbering messy noises at Akira's cock. "That you exist to be caught by me. That no matter how much you struggle, this will always be your fate."

Helpless, Akira just cried out louder, a wordless sentiment of agreement. The Director's head bobbed up and down, taking Akira down his throat at every descent like he didn't need to breathe. And actually, he probably didn't. Muscles flexed around Akira's cock, tight and wet and impossibly hot. Drool ran down his chin from the messy kisses of his double, giving him no break, no quarter, like he was his own rival.

The knowledge that the real Akechi watched him break like this, with the same eyes that stared down a pool cue, stroking himself with the same hand that threw a damn bullseye every time, drinking in Akira at his most debauched, somehow didn't make him more embarrassed, but thrilled him even more. Akechi surrounded him, enveloped him, owned him, and Akira's head emptied, thoughts vanished, replaced by the warm buzzing security of knowing he was well and truly caught with no chance of escape. He didn't have to be anything, try anything, he could just wallow in a luxurious golden cage of pleasure.

His double eventually pulled away from Akira's gasping mouth. When he leaned up, trying to chase after his own lips, the double pushed him down with a laugh. "I think he's ready for you, Playwright." Akira's foggy brain barely registered the cognition's nickname for Akechi until he heard soft footsteps, and the bed dipped by his head. Akechi's cock by his face was the first thing he saw, and the first thing he did, the only thing he could do, was open his mouth wider.

"You're right," Akechi purred, thumbing under his bottom lip. "Broken already, my dear rival?"

 _Don't ask me that, don't make me think_ , he begged internally, surfacing briefly. _When this is all I could think about all week, all I wanted. Haven't I proved myself enough?_

Lips popped off his cock, exposing him to the air and making him shiver. "Don't tease him too much," a copy of Akechi's voice said over the head of his dick, the breath of his words ghosting over his sensitive skin. Akira watched him shift, leaning up to kiss Akira's double before pushing his head against the real thief's chest, where the cognition obediently began licking and nibbling his exposed nipples. Akira whined and wiggled, pink nubs standing flushed and erect. "See? Look at him. Isn't he being so good for us?"

Akechi sneered, and Akira barely noticed through tears gathering on his lashes. "Play your role properly."

The other Akechi just chuckled, but he ducked back down and dutifully returned to sucking Akira's dick.

The prince grabbed Akira's chin and tilted it up, his watery eyes meeting Akechi's past his mask. "You look so beautiful like this, Joker," he whispered with a kind of reverence before plunging his cock past Akira's loose lips.

Akira moaned around the hard length, tongue immediately laving the underside and cheeks hollowing around it. Akechi fisted the back of his hair, holding him still so he could rock in and out. Akira tried to swallow at each thrust, remember the last time he sucked Akechi's dick, but everything about this was different. He didn't have lips teasing his nipples before, didn't have a hot mouth sucking him off like it needed him more than air. Akira absolutely utterly collapsed under the weight of it all, overstimulating, overwhelming, three bodies against his and touching all over him.

He didn't need to hold back his voice like when he fooled around back at his parents' house, back with his retroactively disappointing and pathetic previous partners. Howling as much as he could past Akechi'd length, moaning and gurgling when he pushed past the point of comfort. If he gagged, hands identical to his own smoothed over his chest and belly, stroking in cool, calming waves. The Director's palms held open Akira's thighs, not even stroking or grabbing at his erection because he mouth and throat took it all.

Tears spilled over his face, of strain and past dozens of choked sputters and from overwhelming bliss. Akechi grunted as he moved, while the other two stayed quiet beyond the visceral wet sounds of their bodies meeting. Akira's whole body burned with painful pressure building in his groin, but he didn't even think he could come, like he'd rocketed past his peak only to be left strung out in a point beyond, living in a world of eternal climax with no actual relief. Torture. Heaven. He wanted to beg to stop, slow down, give him a break, but also cry that he never wanted it to end.

The Director's hands slide up his thighs towards his balls, grazing over the soft fuzz. The additional touch electrified his nerves, skin tingling. But he didn't stop there. Fingers tipped lower and lower, down the rounded curve of his ass and pushing past the muscle to stroke over his hole.

Akira bucked with his whole body, yanking his mouth off Akechi to babble encouraging expletives. The real Akechi snarled by his ear, but directed his ire to his own Shadow. "Fuck off," he spat. "You don't get to touch him there."

The Director's yellow eyes glowed warm as sunflowers from between Akira's legs, pulling up enough to respond. "What, jealous? Of yourself?" He pushed Akira up, curving his spine so he could more easily access what he was looking for. Pulling him open, the Director ran his tongue between his cheeks. Akira wailed, numbs hands flexing at the small of his back for something to grab on to. Akechi lunged forward and shoved him away, letting Akira's lower half flop on the mattress.

" _I'll_ do it," Akechi snapped at his Shadow. "Back off."

"Fine," the Director hummed, pulling the other Akira into his arms. "I have my own star to play with."

"Director," the fake Akira simpered.

Akechi knelt between Akira's legs, shoving his knees into his chest. Fire burned in his eyes and he licked his lips, leaning down to resume where his Shadow left off. The tongue across his hole moved with fury and confidence, fast and wet and pressing hard. Akira shimmied his hips, not sure if it felt amazing or kind of gross. Maybe both? It circled around his rim, every lap bringing more wetness and mess. Akira's breath rose in stuttering halts, and he turned his head to the side to avoid seeing what was happening.

Only to see the Director stripping the cognition of the rest of his clothes, baring a pale, flushed, hard body. Akira watched the Director kiss him, nipping down his neck and shoulders, and the other Akira shivered and tangled a hand in tawny brown hair. The Director caught him looking and smiled over the cognition's shoulder. "Akira," he murmured, and even though he wasn't talking to him, the real Akira still shuddered at hearing Akechi's voice dance over his name. "It seems his mouth his free. Why don't you occupy him?"

The cognition giggled in a way he was sure he never had in real life. "At your direction." Akira expected his cock at his mouth, like Akechi had done, but he settled his knees on either side of his head, angling his hips and reaching behind him.

"Loosen him up," the Director instructed, petting both their heads with surprising gentleness. "Just like my real self is doing for you." Akira opened his mouth - to gasp, to protest maybe? - as Akechi stopped licking his wet hole to press a finger inside instead. Akira's body clenched instinctively, then relaxed, and the haze settled back over him. He held out his tongue, and his reflection lowered his ass over his face.

Akira squeezed his eyes shut and lapped up blind, tasting surprisingly clean, warm, husky skin. No thinking, no doubting, no hesitating, just licking up into a tight, quivering hole as fingers worked him loose below. He dimly registered the digits pulling out and returning with a slick cool gel, then spread it deeply inside. The Director kissed the body riding Akira's face, the smacking sounds only added to the filthy noises all around.

Akechi tapped a spot inside him that made him yelp, and his reflection grinded insistently, giving him no slack.

"Does it feel good, pets?" Akira took a second to realize the Director spoke to both of them.

"He's so eager," Akira's traitorous double announced out loud, voice high and whiney. "Ahhh, so _good,_ he's working me so good, Director!"

"Better than me?" He teased.

The double shook his head so hard Akira felt the shifting muscles above him. "Never," his voice slurred. "Never better than you…"

"How about you?" The Shadow stroked through Akira's curls. "How do you taste?"

Akira could only manage a high pitched whimper. It didn't taste like anything real, maybe because it was only a cognition. But his noises, the feel of spit drooling over his chin, the muscles relaxing and clenching hungrily, the addition of a second, then third finger in his hole… Akira would never feel this ever again. If he stole Akechi's treasure, changed his heart, he'd never be held like this ever again. It's enough panic to chase away the blissful fog, and Akira moaned in despair.

"Shhh," and this time from his double, rocking his hips gently into Akira's mouth. "Don't think. Just feel. How does it _feel_?"

"I love it," Akira cried between eager licks. "You're all… so good!:

"Are you ready for me, my star?" The words are distant and hazy, as is the response.

"Yes! Please, please fuck me Director Goro!"

Akechi choked on his next breath of air, apparently as affected by the use of his name as Akira was. The Director folded his partner down next to Akira, so if he turned his head, he saw his open-mouthed and drooling double, erection weeping precum on his belly the same angle as Akira's. Finally unzipping his pants, the Shadow pulled out his reddened, hard cock, immediately lining up to the cognition's hole and pushing inside.

Akechi punctuated the cognition's ecstatic wails with a fourth finger, splitting them apart to stretch Akira's rim with a delicious burn that had him echoing his doppelganger. The Director took a brutal pace, slamming into him the audible crack of flesh. And the cognition, consummate actor, looked like a pornographic vision, hair artfully mussed and plastered by sweat to his forehead, crying out at each thrust, begging for more, legs and arms wrapping around his grunting lover. Akira's hole gaped loose and wet and he was desperate to be as filled and satisfied as the angelic reflection beside him.

"Akechi," he moaned, "Akechi, please, I'm ready, I'm so ready, please fuck me too."

Akechi pulled back with a groan, shaking hands fumbling at his belt with a curse. When he's finally free enough of his clothes, he grabbed Akira and flipped him onto his stomach, pushing his face into the mattress. Aching arms finally got a reprieve without the pressure of his body cutting them off, but as blood rushed back to his fingers, he became more aware of how sore his shoulders and wrists had become. Did Akechi flip him with that in mind, or did he just have better access this way? Didn't matter, because Akechi started rutting against the curve of his ass, rubbing his painfully hard length up and down until Akira wanted to sob. "Please," he begged desperately, rocking back into him. "Akechi, please."

They were the only words he knew, over the din of his own voice screaming _fuck yes! Harder! More!_ Akira couldn't believe he felt jealous of himself. But finally, finally, Akechi grabbed his hips and pushed inside.

The sigh of relief that escaped Akira's mouth pitched back into a wail as Akechi felt the need to outpace his Shadow, adopting an even faster, more ruthless pace, slamming his full length in and out. And yet, because of the time Akechi had spent with his fingers, Akira didn't feel much pain, just a pleasant burn and the deep, intimate ache of getting pounded over and over. Voices melded together into a complementary chorus - Akira voices, pleading and praising - Akechi voices, grunting and groaning. No beginning, no end, no flesh separating them from their cognitive doubles. Akira could almost feel when the Director moved, and maybe Akechi could feel when the actor version of Akira squeezed and tightened on his length.

Empty of everything but cock, of pleasure, of desire, Akira's body still craved more, still overwhelmed, too overestimated to even consider orgasm, perched on the precipice, dick hard and pressed between his stomach and the bed, but sweet release remained out of reach.

It seemed their counterparts felt the same, because no climax interrupted their messy performance of trying to out-fuck the other. The fake Akira antagonized the fake Akechi, constantly demanded more, more, harder, while the real Akira could barely slur out an intelligible syllable asking for the same. Something more, something extra, to push him even further past the agonizing liminality and finally bring them all to sweaty, exhausting completion.

But Akechi didn’t try to keep going. Instead, he pulled out of Akira, leaving him trembling and weeping in helpless agony, leaning over to confer, or order, the other two residents of his Palace.

"Lie down," he demanded of his Shadow, and his yellow eyes filled with mirth, catching on to his intent readily. Because they had the same mind. The Director also pulled out from cognitive Akira, left similarly bereft and exhausted, to lie down on an empty spread of the massive bed. "Kurusu," Akechi orders, and after all this time, it was almost funny that Akechi still stuck to proprietary surnames. "Climb on him."

Akira tried to sit up, but the remnants of his coat falling down his arms and pants at his ankles, not to mention the handcuffs and the brutal fucking he just endured, made just the prospect of moving daunting. Akechi clucked his tongue in frustration, undoing the cuffs and making short work of the rest of Akira's clothes until he was as naked as his counterpart.

“Now,” Akechi barked, thumbing towards his placid Shadow, flat except for the dick standing tall. “Get on him.”

Trembling a little, muscles aching and stiff, Akira climbed across the bed towards the Director, crawling hand over foot until he straddled Akechi’s lookalike. “Wh...what am I...” He hated this feeling of indecision, of hesitancy, of feeling like he had a choice to make. He’d made peace with his loss of agency when this very Shadow clocked him over the bed and brought him here. Akira wasn’t here to think, to choose, but to feel, to do. The Shadow cradled his face, stroking long, calloused fingers across his soft cheeks. “You don’t have to do anything but take us, beautiful,” he purred, and Akira felt that raging hard-on at his backside, rutting up in long, slow strokes. The ‘us’ of his sentence faded to static, and he just nodded, using the freedom his hands granted to grab his cock and start angling it towards his entrance. Amazing. Just like everything, like this whole debauched night, it felt just like Akechi’s, fitting in to that void inside him perfectly, moving smooth and easy.

Closing his eyes, he could just relish in the feeling, sitting upright and bouncing on Akechi’s, the Director’s, whoever’s dick, rubbing against his prostrate at the sweetest of angles until every stroke rolled back his eyes, called forth tremulous staccato notes from the reaches of his chest. And balancing on the wobbly mattress, his double stood in front of him so his cock leveled at his mouth.

“Finish him off,” The Director spoke so strangely soft, giving iron orders in a velvet glove. Akira had no reason to complain, after eating him out earlier and sucking off Akechi. His reflection also went slow, gentle, knowing how much abuse his mouth had received tonight, timing his thrusts in tune with the Director’s. He didn’t catch where Akechi had gone - maybe watching again? Enjoying the show, of getting off from two fake versions of themselves? Just in case, Akira gave it his all, lavishing the replica of his cock with spit and love, swallowing it down as hungrily and noisily as his ass took the Director.

But hands rubbing his ass knocked that fantasy away pretty fast. They weren’t the Director’s - his were firmly holding Akira by the hips, thumbs rubbing gentle circles. The real Akechi stood behind him massaging his cheeks together, then apart, almost anxiously kneading his flesh. It felt amazing, though, every squeeze together tightened his hole around the Director. The slow pace of the stretch, of the cognition’s lazy rolling ribs, Akechi’s massaging gloved hands, brought his mind down from the peaks of pleasure, and now, he couldn’t start properly building towards what promised to be the most mind-bending orgasm of his life.

A finger touched where they were connected, and Akira gagged on his own cock for the first time. The digit pressed up along with the cock buried inside him, hooking the edge of his rim and pulling. Akira wailed, unwilling to pull of his reflection but breaking apart at the additional pressure.

“You’re being so good for us,” the Director praised quietly, moving his hands to the small of Akira’s back. “You’re so good, we both want to have you.”

Realization started to kick in. Both? At the… same time? Akira’s heart slammed up in his throat, scary fear superseding aroused fear. How could they…? Did that even work? Wouldn’t it hurt? But strange, so strange, the fake Akechi behaved more like the Detective Prince, whispering soothing, lulling words, charm and kindness rolling from him and settling, if not resolving, Akira’s fraying nerves. He tried not to wonder what it meant that his Shadow, the true reflection of his inner self, treated Akira better than the real thing. Was his true self just a lie, a deception? But he was the Director, not an actor himself. He guided the pieces where they needed to be. Was that Akechi’s true self, then? A commander, a leader, who would do whatever it took to get the right performance from his players?

Changing masks depending on who you’re with… Akira knew a thing or two about that.

Akechi pulled his finger away, replacing it with his cock instead. Akira whimpered, squirming away, genuinely scared for the first time since his first visit. Both cognitions treated him gently, like a scared animal; even his own reflection stroked his thumbs across his tear-stained cheeks.

“Are you ready?” Akechi’s voice asked. It could have been the Director or the real one, he had no idea, wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“Don’t make me answer,” he responded when his double pulled away enough to speak. His voice sounded so small and meek, nothing like Joker, even quieter than his voice in the real world, when he tried to avoid trouble. His words hung in the air, shining gossamer thin like spider silk.

“Okay,” Akechi said from behind, voice too blank to read. “I won’t.”

He pushed at the rim of Akira’s hole, which at first did not give at all. Akira hissed, flinching, and his double stroked through his hair. More cool gel at his entrance, along both shafts. The Director had stopped moving for now, and they all paused with baited breath as Akechi tried again, pressing at their connection point. Tension built up between them, and Akira tried not to clench as Akechi insistently kept moving forward, thrusting shallowly to help him adjust. When Akira gritted his teeth, his other half massaged the hinges of his jaw to release his tight ache. When he tried to flinch away, the Director stilled his hips. Akira’s mouth cracked open and wailed an ungodly noise as Akechi finally slipped in.

The pain! The utter, terrible, sublime fullness. Tears rolled openly down his faced, kissed away but his doppelganger. No one moved, holding themselves still for their sakes, for Akira’s, he didn’t know. Even the inhuman Shadow below him panted, quivering like a livewire. As a distraction, the cognition guided Akira’s face back to his cock, sliding his mouth along the outside of the shaft. Gladly, he laved it with attention, waiting for the tremors to stop ravaging his body, for his knees to unlock.

A quiet hiss warned him before Akechi pushed a little deeper still. Every millimeter agonized Akira, whimpering and crying, too afraid to bawl like he wanted lest it jostle the cocks inside him too much.

“So fucking tight,” Akechi gritted out.

“What did you expect? He’s never had so many at once.” The Director’s hands found Akira’s cock, a feather-light touch that nonetheless send a massive spasm through his whole body. He almost came from that alone.

“Don’t fucking do that,” snapped Akechi. “Fuck, he got even tighter somehow.”

“What, you didn’t like it?”

“We _both_ liked it _too much._ ”

All through their fighting, Akira languished, unsure how much more he could take. It hurt so much, he felt like he was tearing apart, and yet, buried somewhere deep, deep inside, it also ached in the best possible way. Absolutely stuffed full of cock, two in his ass and one in his mouth. They moved, little by little, just a teeny bit faster every time, and it destroyed Akira at each tempo change, each time a thrust hit harder than intended. So many moving bodies, quivering, painfully aroused, dangerously close, not sure how to move without jostling the others out of sync. The most fucked-up tightrope act to ever be seen. Akira couldn’t speak past the taste of his own cock, weeping too erratically to even put in an effort, but by now his reflection just used Akira's mouth as a cocksleeve, sliding in and out with a slow but deep, unforgiving rhythm. Akira didn’t even know what he’d say if he could speak. More? Stop? Help? Pound me harder? Words wouldn't form solidly in his mind, running between his thoughts like water through fingers, or fading to smears of bleary colors in blurry, sleep-deprived eyes. 

So far, only Akechi actively moved inside him, sliding in Akira’s hole and along with own Shadow’s dick, spreading fire and heat and burning friction the whole time. But the Shadow would not be outdone, and after Akira had gotten control of his voice, holding it between his teeth, so too did the Director start to thrust into his exhausted body, two cocks moving as one.

The one in his mouth began to twitch frantically, movements stuttering and stopping. “Director,” Akira’s voice cried out. “Director, I want to… I’m going to...”

Reaching over his head, the Director stroked up the cognition’s inner thighs, handprints Akira detected as phantom limbs on his own body. “Inside him,” the Director lovingly coached. “Spill your seed in your own mouth, let him taste it.”

With a cry, having gotten permission, Akira’s twin fisted the back of his head and slammed into his throat, having abandoned any semblance of resistance or gag reflex. Two more thrusts was all it took before his cock throbbed wildly in his mouth, spilling salty hot fluid directly down his esophagus. Akira dutifully swallowed every drop, coating his throat with sticky heat, even as he choked on the last mouthful, thick and clinging. It dribbled down his chin, white clinging to his bottom lip. 

“Shit!” Akechi spat, and two pairs of hands stroked all along Akira’s body - up the valley of his spine, the hills of his ribs, mountainous shoulders and field of abs. They broke their pattern, each Akechi moving at a different speed, creating a cacophonous blur of touch and feel, their bodies reaching different parts of him at different times, hitting different sweet spots, until the only noise Akira could make were unconscious voiced cries of pain releasing at every exhale.

“I can’t,” his mouth babbled, barely registering his voice being separate or different from his double, “Can’t can’t can’t, please please please,” words slurring into each other so bad, sounding like _kuht and peez ._ Total nonsense, pointless, fruitless.

The Director grunted, gritting his teeth through a smirk. “Don’t want to lose to me and go first, do you?”

“Fuck you,” Akechi snarled.

“Together, then. I am you, after all. The closer you get...”

“Shut up! Not helping!”

A chuckle. “Right.”

They pulled Akira in two directions, fraying his essence at the seam - Joker, and Akira. Joker, the brave, the bold, the brash. Akira, criminal, cowardly, cautious. He didn’t want to be either of them. Didn’t want to be anyone, anything, just surrender to the unbearable heat, the aching pressure, the need between his legs untenable. “Please!” Akira screamed, voice raw and cracking. “Please come in me! Fill me up!”

They both groaned at that, clutching, scraping, scratching, and both cocks shuddered delightfully against each other, wet heat filling his body. Underneath his, the Director reached up to touch Akira’s cock, red and weeping, and in so doing brushed his belly. Akira felt his fingers graze a bump that hadn’t been there before, blushing swollen skin. They both brushed over it in wonder, and Akira felt the dicks inside him reach to that soft touch. As the Director wrapped his fist around his cock with a certainty, jerking him to completion, Akira came with the certain knowledge that both of them fucked him so hard, his own body just surrendered.

Akira’s orgasm wasn't visually as impressive as it felt. Like his cock was also tired and worn out, his cum dribbled from the tip, pooling on to the Director underneath. Far past his limits, Akira fell forward onto that chest, lungs filling and deflating with desperate, fearful prey energy. The two Akechis freed themselves of the horrific tight clutch of Akira’s body, two loads of cum mixing and dripping out of him. The director rolls him off, lays him flat on the bed.

Asleep. Breathing shallow, skin pale, but a cursory glance shows no blood, no damage, and his other vitals are stable. Akechi stood on shaking legs, pulling his outfit back together. His Shadow curled up with the exact replica of Akira, who closed his eyes and snuggled under his arm. Asleep, naked, there was really no telling them apart at all.

“What’s your next brilliant plan, Playwright?” His Shadow used the nickname derisively. Akechi held his chin, glancing at the figures on his bed.

Akira can’t be allowed to leave. Not now. He knew from their first encounter that it was the real deal. Even his mind couldn’t be so exacting, so unpredictable, so _perfect_ in every way. He could never challenge his own mind so effectively. He thought they could both play dumb, measure each other up in the real world. Maybe Akira would try to get his friends to change his heart. Maybe he would bury the knowledge of his Palace in shame. But of course, brilliant rival that he was, he never expected Akira to show back up so soon. And what he witnessed tonight… it changed everything.

“He’ll stay here,” he decided.

“Bold move, Playwright. Are we at the falling action then? The denouement? We’ve just had the _climax_ after all. Surely, his friends will come looking.”

God, he hated this smarmy son of a bitch. Akechi took self-hatred quite literally. “I’m sure they will. But I’m almost certain Joker didn’t tell them about this place, or else he wouldn’t have made it in without the cat, at least.”

“How will we account for a person missing in the real world, then?”

“He won’t be missing,” Akechi answered with a confident smirk, glancing at the cognition. “ _He’s_ going to take his place.”

The fake Akira merely hummed, looking up at the Director with doey eyes. The Shadow caught on immediately. “Yes… of course. My star will take on the role of Kurusu Akira in reality, follow along the script you set out even better than the understudy, here. And when the time comes...”

“...I will kill him, and then he’ll just reappear here later.”

The Director petted the heads of both Akiras, glancing between them fondly. Real Akechi’s hand twitched, like he wanted to do the same, but he pulled it back to his side. “You were right Akira,” he murmured, turning away with a smile of true happiness. “More right than you knew. You truly exist only for me, now.”


End file.
